Human, Slightly Worn
by The Sugarfaerie
Summary: "Natasha knew something had changed the stakes when Clint came through her front door instead of letting himself in by scaling the fire escape." Clint feels exhausted more and more these days.
1. Chapter 1

This was a quick fic I wrote as a release from stress. Contains allusions to PTSD.

Disclaimer: None of this is mine.

* * *

Natasha knew something had changed the stakes when Clint came through her front door instead of letting himself in by scaling the fire escape.

His backpack was slung over his shoulder and his t-shirt looked like he hadn't changed in a week. There were fresh stiches on his forehead and the beginnings of a bruise on his jaw. "Hey," he said softly, bending to give her a quick kiss. His lips tasted like salt and toothpaste with a hint of something purely _him._ "I had a quick shower back on base, but…" He shifted his weight from foot to foot, eyes flicking around to settle somewhere over her shoulder.

Natasha reached to set his bag on the floor. "Go."

Clint nodded and headed straight through her bedroom door towards the bathroom. Upon hearing the shower turn on, Natasha followed, lying down on the bed with a book. She could make out the sound of Clint sighing under the water.

The shower ran for far longer than normal, but Natasha resisted any temptation to investigate. The water would do its work.

The shower shut off and moments later Clint appeared wearing old tracksuit pants and rubbing a towel over his hair. Natasha traced his movements with her eyes as he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, forearms on his knees.

"Feel more human?" Natasha ventured, closing her book.

The lines around his eyes deepened as he gave a tight-lipped smile. He turned his body to look at her and Natasha noticed him wince. "Injury?"

Clint shook his head. "Muscle cramp."

Natasha set her book aside and rose up on her knees, spreading her hands wide. Reading her signal, Clint stretched out on the bed, his cheek pressed against the pillows. He breathed deeply as Natasha smeared her hands with oil.

His skin was still warm from the shower when she brought her hands down on his shoulders, slowly working the muscles. She pushed hard and dug in deep, this was no romantic gesture. Clint hissed and swore as she made her way from his neck down his back, willing the tension to release. One final roll and Clint groaned into his pillow, his body heaving as he caught his breath.

Satisfied, Natasha pressed a kiss to his nape and lay down beside him. Oiled up and stretched out, he was positively edible, but twitchy in the way he was more and more these days. Since New York.

He rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. "Not sure how long my body can hold up to this."

Natasha ran her fingers through his hair, teasing the hints of grey around his temples. "Well, you aren't getting any younger."

He cast his eyes down, blushing like he always did when she noted the years he had on her.

She slid one hand over his stomach, feeling the slight softness that covered his muscles. He hummed appreciatively, reaching up to stroke her wrist. She enjoyed him like this, strong but unrefined, unashamedly himself.

Clint closed his eyes for a moment. "I think my days in the field are numbered."

Natasha frowned. It was not like she hadn't noticed that Clint was being assigned to more jobs that required his analytical skills rather than his physical, but she wouldn't have expected him to mention it. "Clint, what are you trying to say?"

Clint drew a long, deep breath and kept his eyes fixed straight above him, away from her.

"I think I want out."

"Of the field?"

"No. Well, yes. But it's more than that." Clint stayed very still, his only movement the fingers of his left hand tapping against the bedspread like a nervous twitch. That was also new. "You said once I had to level out," he rasped. "It gets harder every time I come back."

"So you want to leave S.H.I.E.L.D," Natasha concluded, swallowing down the tiny lump in her throat.

Clint's fingers stopped tapping. "I guess so." He rolled onto his side to face her. "What do you think?"

"I think you shouldn't let other people influence your choices."

It must have come out harsher than she intended, because Clint's brow furrowed and for a moment he looked hurt. The Black Widow might be the master of saying the right thing at the right time, but Natasha Romanoff wouldn't be taking home prizes for excellent interpersonal skills.

"Never mind. Just wanted to run it by you."

So he had been thinking about this for a while. Natasha was not surprised, she had suspected something was on his mind ever since he came home grumpy after being put on a new strike team two months ago. Most of his old team had been decimated in the attack on the helicarrier. Even though her missions tended to be solitary, Natasha knew how important trust was in those teams, how it took years to build and was almost always forged in blood. Bishara, who had celebrated her engagement only days before she was killed. Morrison, who told the worst jokes. Coulson, who had been a good leader even if he took the liberty of using her first name far too often and made tea by heating a mug of water in the microwave, something Natasha would always consider barbaric. Clint had gone to every funeral, clutching her hand until it hurt, and trying to adapt to a new team must feel like a betrayal.

No one was jumping at the chance to work with Clint, either. Some wounds never healed.

"What would you do if you left?" she asked, deliberately softening her voice.

The corner of Clint's lips twitched, like he had read her play. "Dunno. Could be a house-husband."

Natasha snorted. "That's ridiculous. You'd be stir-crazy after two days. Besides, we're not married."

He propped himself up on his elbow, suddenly serious. "What if we were?"

"Clint, is this your way of asking me to marry you?"

Clint's one shoulder shrug was a poor attempt at nonchalance. "Think of the health insurance benefits."

Natasha tipped her head back and laughed, not sure if it was out of mirth or relief, and she loved that he could cause a reaction in her that was not planned or rehearsed. "This is the worst proposal ever."

Clint chuckled, leaning in to her. "No, really. If I leave I'll need someone to be my next of kin."

"Ask me properly one day and I might consider it."

He leaned over and kissed her deeply. "Whatever you want," he breathed.

Clint lay back and Natasha rested her hand on his chest, feeling it rise and fall as he drifted into a doze. She watched him for a while, guarding his respite from the world, until she brushed her lips over his forehead and went into the kitchen, knowing he would be out for a while.

She was sitting on the couch and going through some surveillance reports, clutching a cup of hot tea in her hand, when Clint padded into the room, yawning and rubbing the back of his neck. His pants her slung low over his hips and Natasha admired the curve of his spine as he reached into a cupboard for a mug.

"You'll have to look for a new job if you leave," she called as he rummaged in the cutlery drawer and stirred some of that revolting instant coffee he insisted on keeping at her apartment. "I'm not supporting a kept man on my salary."

The spoon clattered to the floor.

"Tasha," he said slowly, not moving. "Is this a yes?"

Natasha rolled her eyes. "You're an idiot, Clint Barton. Get over here."

He flopped down next to her on the couch, a grin spreading across his face as she set down her cup so she could climb into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Sleep well?" she murmured into his ear.

His hands came up to settle on her hips, his lips brushing her throat. "I could use a little more R&R."

Natasha smacked him lightly on the shoulder as she laughed, her forehead coming down to lean against his. He closed his eyes, his arms tightening around her.

"Clint," Natasha said when he looked at her again. "Are you okay?"

It wasn't something they asked each other often. "Yeah," Clint said, drawing out the word like he was surprised at the answer. "Yeah, I think I will be."


	2. Chapter 2

This was meant to be a oneshot, but Clint and Natasha had more to say. So have a second chapter!

Contains sexytimes.

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Natasha woke to the unmistakable sound of Clint preparing breakfast. He did this whenever they spent the night together in either of their apartments. It happened too infrequently to call it tradition or routine, even on the days they were in New York at the same time, one of them would often be called away during the night. But if they could stay together till morning, Clint would make her breakfast.

The first time it happened Natasha had almost laughed in disbelief. It wasn't the first time they'd fucked; that was more than three years ago in Seoul, or even the third or the fourth, but it was the first time they had slept together in his apartment. She had sat up in his bed, the sheets falling around her waist, and there he was in the doorway, balancing a tray laden with coffee and bagels, a sheepish look on his face as if she was some college kid he'd picked up in a bar.

She had wondered, then, if seeing her in his bed, away from the blood and the adrenaline that coloured their previous encounters, had somehow made him ashamed or guilty. The fact that he set the tray down and crawled back into bed with her had cleared that up quick.

Afterwards she found the now cool coffee drinkable, but left him instructions on how to make a proper cup of tea.

Today she lay back against the pillows, watching the grey morning light filtering through the window. It began to drizzle just as Clint wandered in. His hair was scruffy and he needed to shave, but he looked more rested than he had in weeks. "Thanks," she said as he lowered the tray.

They balanced the tray on their knees while they ate in companionable silence; warm croissants and jam this time, with coffee for him and tea for her. When she was done Natasha set the tray aside and wiped the crumbs from her mouth. "I'm going to shower."

Clint opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then shut it again as Natasha slid out of bed.

She turned on the taps in the shower and smiled when she felt Clint slide in behind her. "Hey, darlin,'" he breathed into her neck, scraping stubble across her skin, then pressed a kiss against her shoulder. She leant back against him as he reached for the shower gel, squirting some into his hands and rubbing them over her torso. He lingered on her breasts, cupping their weight in his hands and kneading, teasing her nipples with his thumbs as she tipped her head onto his shoulder. Clint never made a secret of the fact that he loved her breasts, and Natasha did not find reason to complain.

His left hand slid down over her stomach and Natasha's arm shot out to brace herself against the wall when he dipped between her legs, her other hand coming up to grab the back of his neck. She cried out and she could feel him smirk against her ear. He never seemed to grow tired of making her come, treating every shudder and moan as a reward for his efforts, and she knew he would look smug as hell right now. _Oh yeah. I done good._

He slid two fingers inside her and her knees buckled. Swiftly, she reached behind her and gripped his length. Time to get even.

Clint swore under his breath and spun her around, keeping her back against the wall so he could hoist her legs up around his hips. Natasha let out a laugh, kissing him, and he entered her with one thrust.

He set a brutal rhythm and all Natasha could do was hang on for dear life. He seemed to instinctively know when she wanted it soft and gentle and when she just wanted a good, hard fuck.

She latched her legs around him, pulling on his short hair, and the pleasure built and wound up tighter inside her with each roll of his hips. He hit her just right, every time, and when she couldn't hold on anymore she sobbed his name against his lips and he came, his voice ragged but arms steady, never letting her fall.

He lowered her down carefully and she wrapped her arms around his back. "You don't fuck like an old guy," she whispered into his ear.

He raised his head and gave her a mock-glare. "You're evil."

"You love it."

He grinned and she felt her insides turn to jelly at the sight. "That I do."

She threw him a spare towel and they dried off, making their way back to her bedroom so they could search for their scattered clothes.

"How did my bra end up on the bedside lamp?" Natasha questioned aloud as she opened her underwear drawer.

Clint huffed with laughter as he buttoned his jeans. "Beats me, dollface," he quipped, reaching over to pat her on the ass. When Natasha turned to swipe at him he was already halfway out the door.

She followed him into the living room and they spent a few hours pottering around each other, doing their morning exercise routines and checking their emails. As the day wore on Natasha sharpened her knives at the kitchen table while Clint worked on new arrowhead designs in their own twisted version of domesticity.

"Bukowski's got a bunch of raw recruits that need training in L.A," Clint mentioned from his place on the couch. "He said the job's mine if I want it. Or there's an offer from Tactical down in Washington."

Natasha gripped the edge of the table. They were good options, Clint's quick wits and observational skills would serve him well and the agents there remembered Hawkeye for saving the world rather than slaughtering their colleagues. It would be the most logical choice.

And yet she felt freezing cold. "Really?" was all she managed to say.

"Yeah. There's also the private sector, you know, security stuff. The pay might be better."

She set down her knives and sat down next to him. "Never thought I'd live to see the day you turn up to work in a suit," she teased, trying to hide the tremor in her voice.

"Oh, I don't know," Clint rumbled, nuzzling her jaw. "Ties can be useful. Remember Marseille?" He gazed up at her and frowned when she did not respond. "Something wrong?"

He was all blue eyes and parted lips and genuine confusion, and it was too much, she had to look way.

"Tasha, c'mon." Clint brushed her hair away from her face and let his fingers rest against her cheek. "You've been holding back since last night."

Natasha shrugged jerkily. This would be so much easier if she could slip into Natalie or Irina or Laura and let them do the talking.

She is the Black Widow.

She was on her own for so long. She would adapt to it again. But that didn't mean she wanted to.

Swallowing, Natasha laid a hand against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beat beneath her palm. She took a deep breath and the words tumbled out, unbidden. "Okay. I think you need this. You've been burning out for a while, we both know it. If leaving New York will help you, then..." she trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. "I'd miss you," she revealed, the walls down and her thoughts flooding through. "You don't know how much. I know it's selfish and I shouldn't ask but I don't want you to leave if it means leaving me."

For a moment Clint looked stunned. Then a sly grin spread across his face and he took her hand in his and kissed her fingers. "Darlin,' I'm here as long as you want me."

He pulled her towards him and relief broke over her like a wave. She snatched her arm back and tried to fix him with her best Withering Glare, but Clint only laughed. "I'll find a job in New York. You didn't think you'd be rid of me that easily, did you?"

Abandoning speech, Natasha launched herself across the couch, pinning him down and sliding her legs over his. His purple shirt was faded from too much washing, he had lines around his mouth and the wonder in his eyes belied his cocky smirk; and she loved him so much it hurt, so much it terrified her, and she never wanted to be anywhere else.

She paused over him. "Ask me."

Clint reached up, tracing the outline of her lips as he held her gaze. "Will you marry me, Tasha?"

"Yes." She kissed him. "Yes." She repeated it over and over, laughing, his arms around her as they kissed on her couch in a New York autumn, and the rain hit the windows outside.


End file.
